


Pointe Grise

by worldturtling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ballet Dancer Dean, Dance instructor Alastair, Dancer Dean, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Student Dean, Underage (nonsexual), Unhealthy Relationships, dancing en pointe, forced feminization (alluded), manipulation of a child, obsessive behaviors, potentially alluded to eating disorder, underage feminization (nonsexually explicit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldturtling/pseuds/worldturtling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is 12 when he is admitted into the conservatory to practice ballet, and 14 when Alastair takes him under his wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pointe Grise

**Pointe Grise** _(1.5k)_

Dean/Alastair prodigy fic (I guess tw for underage but not that kind of shipping)

rated pg13

Dean is 12 when he is admitted into the conservatory, and 14 when Alastair takes him under his wing. 

potential triggers: potential alluded eating disorder, underage(? does it count if it’s not actual shipping)  vague enforced feminization, vague mentions of physical abuse ,psychological abuse 

 

The gray man is long and elegant, pointed in all his features but with a bowed grace to them. He is chromatically different shades of gray. He doesn’t know the man’s name. He doesn’t know the man’s name yet.

He is only here for an audition. He’s twelve and his entire life depends on being accepted into the dance institution. His ears have turned red at every passing glance and mention of his legs, bowed and awkward looking, and today is no different. He swallows down stricken breaths and keeps his blood from rushing to his face for once, because he can’t let her down. He can’t let his mom down.

He dances in the shoes she left behind after the accident. They fit him now, his feet are slender and small like hers, but they won’t be the same next year. He bends and jumps when they tell him, no one at the table remarks on his legs, though they stare and whisper. The slender elegant gray man stares most of all. He doesn’t whisper.

When Dean is accepted, he moves into the tiny room with another boy at the conservatory. He thinks they are friends, but he still eats alone. He still wears his mother’s shoes to practice. He pretends she’s hugging him, even though she’s cold in the ground.

His father doesn’t call or write, and Dean tries to forget about his baby brother.

He doesn’t see the grey man for another two years.

-

On his fourteenth birthday he receives pointe shoes from the grey man. Dean doesn’t think to ask if it’s customary or normal. He feels their heaviness in his hands, but also their satin ribboning. It’s the closest he has to what his mother wore. Alastair, his name is, recruits him for private instruction. This is because Dean is special, he says. Sometimes students are chosen for private study with an instructor. Dean has been chosen.

Alastair clacks the copper butt of his cane against the pine wood and Dean learns to be balanced on his toes. He eats less, and Alastair approves at his narrower shoulders. He had a slender frame when he was a child. Protein and lifts toned his arms up, but he does less of that now. Alastair has his eyes set on the shoes satin shoes adorning Dean’s feet each practice.

The first time Dean dances en pointe for the class, even the piano player stops at the chorus. Dean stops mid pirouette, and for the first time in a year, he feels his ears turn red at the looks he receives. Alastair closes a hand over his shoulder and tells him how much he’s improved, and Dean can breathe easily again.

Even Meg’s comment about giving him her tutu doesn’t bother him anymore.

-

Alastair is stone faced and watching Dean who is watching himself through the mirror.

“Again.” He taps the butt of his cane on the floor.

“Again, again, again. Again. Again.”

Dean , out of breath, pirouettes.

“Stop.”  Dean places his foot in front of the other, and watches himself pale in the mirror.

A chalky white hand curves over his hip (slender, smaller than two months ago) and nails press into the fabric of his leotard gently. Dean’s stomach sinks.

“You’re just,” Alastair looms over him, tongue clucking and voice hanging in the air, thick Russian accent shrouding over Dean’s thoughts,  “not getting the right angle.” His hand down over the top of his thighs.

Alastair told him he could shape Dean into perfection with training and hard work. He does not tell Dean this anymore.

Now he is angry when Dean is not perfect. Dean is angry with himself.

“Don’t fret, Dean. Don’t fret. We have a remedy for this, do we not?”

Auditions are in three weeks. Alastair watches Dean stretch in front of the mirrors, in his pink sheer skirt that matches the pink ribbon of his pointe shoes.

“In the next few weeks, you will be  _sensational._ ”

Dean feels the hiss down to his spine.

-

Dean hasn’t heard from John in six years. His number called once, but hung up when Dean had said hello.

Dean wonders how Sammy is doing sometimes.

Alastair’s cane taps painfully at his calf. If Dean ever took the leotard off his legs he’s afraid of what others would see.

-

Sammy is tall and shaggy haired and tan and smiling and bright. Dean feels doused by his shadow, even as he gathers him up in his arms.

“New York is cold, you need some sun Dean,”

“Where’s Dad?”

He tries to ignore the passive click of Sam’s jaw. Or the way his hands fall from his arms and slide into his pockets.

“He’s  at home.” Dean isn’t surprised.

“Does he know you’re here?” Sam’s eyes bug like he’s about to have an annyeurism and Dean finds it in him to laugh. His lips crack when he tries to smile and it’s painful.

“Dean, I haven’t seen you in six years and you’re graduating. Of course I’m gonna be here, he can go fuck himself.”

“Sam,” Dean’s tone is reproachful, but he can’t send him away. He doesn’t want him to leave.

“Dean,” Sam huffs on the precipice of a long winded speech. Dean cuts him off.

“Anyway it’s not graduation, it’s an audition. For the new York company. I might not get in, it’s competitive.”

“You’ll get in,” Sam says dismissively, like it was a given. It counteracts the nerves that have Dean’s hands clenching and unclenching.

“Dean-o,” Dean’s heart freezes and calms all at once. He’s here. Dean will be perfection for him.

Cold hands squeeze around his shoulder.

“Ready for the big performance?” Dean opens his eyes and sees Sam’s face pinched with confusion.

“Uh,sir, this is my younger brother Sam. Sam, this is um, my instructor.” He hasn’t used his voice so much in the last six years. Sam thrusts his hand out.

“I see,” Alastair hums, shaking Sam’s hand. 

“Dean, the curtain call will be in twelve minutes. Best get over there. Don’t forget what I showed you kiddo.”

Dean swallows, flushes at the narrowed eyes Sam throws at him, and he runs.

-

Sam takes him out for dinner. And as much as Dean wants to refuse, he can’t. He feels Alastair’s eyes on the back of his neck when he leaves the conservatory.

When he gets back before curfew, saying goodbye to Sam at the back door, (Bobby is waiting with his truck a block away), Alastair waits for him beyond a corner.

He gasps and hangs his head when Alastair presents shoes in his hands. Shoes Dean takes with a silent nod and follows him to the practice room.

“Your performance was lacking tonight, Dean. I’ve seen you do better, and I want you to show me better now. Repeat the routine you re-enacted today.”

Dean does so once, twice, three times.

He is bone weary tired as he dances. He catches a glimpse of Alastair’s shattered glass eyes in the mirror watching him, a strange glint to them.

“Even if they don’t accept you, I won’t throw you away. I promise I’ll never throw you away Dean.”

Dean is on his fourth turn when he sees the door is half ajar. Green eyes watch.

-

The New York City company accepts him,  and instead of relief he feels fear and panic closing around his throat.  He runs to find Alastair.

Alastair is not in his office.

Alastair is not in any of the practice room.

He overhears the gossip at the headmaster’s office doorway.

“Deported.”

“-child pornography”

Dean feels ill.

“Dean!”

He doesn’t even have time to register Sam’s voice, or what he’s still doing in New York, because he’s busy throwing up breakfast on the polished red oak floor.

-

Sam eventually goes back to Lawrence, and Dean visits doctors. Several. Mostly head doctors, because his teacher might have done something to him and he needed to talk about it.

White noise.

He buys extra padded pointe shoes, and sometimes dances pointe better than Meg, if not as good as.

No one teases him about his legs anymore, now they mention Alastair. He prefers it that way.

-

No one left Dean contact information, and he doesn’t know how to email him either. Alastair was “traditionalist” and didn’t believe in technology. Dean couldn’t be blamed for not contacting him.

-

His father sees him once after graduation. He can’t meet Dean’s eyes. He hands him a check and drives away. Sam isn’t there.

-

He still hears the clacking of Alastair’s cane on wooden floors when he tries to sleep. He can’t retrain his body to not jump at the memory of the sound.

-

He receives a post card on the eve of his first performance for the new York city ballet. It’s blank, white, except for four words on the side with the colorful red stamps. The script flows in cursive.

_You’ve never disappointed me._


End file.
